Man’s man Morey Fry, wearing no collar ruff but his own, strode determinedly down the streets of the Old Town.
“Hey, Joe, want a good time?”
Morey took one unbelieving look. “You again!” he roared.
The little man stared at him in genuine surprise. Then a faint glimmer of recognition crossed his face. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “This morning, huh?” He clucked commiseratingly. “Too bad you wouldn’t deal with me. Your wife was a lot smarter. Of course, you got me a little sore, Jack, so naturally I had to raise the price a little bit.”
“You skunk, you cheated my poor wife blind! You and I are going to the local station house and talk this over.”
The little man pursed his lips. “We are, huh?”
Morey nodded vigorously. “Damn right! And let me tell you—” He stopped in the middle of a threat as a large hand cupped around his shoulder.
The equally large man who owned the hand said, in a mild and cultured voice, “Is this gentleman disturbing you, Sam?”
“Not so far,” the little man conceded. “He might want to, though, so don’t go away.”
Morey wrenched his shoulder away. “Don’t think you can strong-arm me. I’m taking you to the police.”